angel eyes
by paradises
Summary: if he wants me to be broken, then i will have to be whole / or, the story of a little girl who finally decides to break away — dylancentric


**sum | **if he wants me to be broken, then i will have to be whole / dylancentric, for all of my friends!

**notes |** m'kay, so i realize that i haven't written something that's dylancentric in a while and i just wrote this in about forty five minutes on my phone so i apologize for the short length, but i just wanted to write something even if it turns out completely horrible; hope you guys like it?

**dedication **| to all of my friends on this site who have helped me get this far, (:

**angel eyes  
**dylancentric

Everything was easier back then.

Back then when it was a childhood — filled with fond memories of playing in the backyards, making flower crowns and finger hearts, pretending as though the world was innocent, thinking that paradise was a place on earth. It's not really that way anymore, and Dylan runs her fingers through her unpretty hair and wants to tear all of the messy curls out, and thinks about the disappointment on her mother's face.

She's just woken up, and her hair; it's a complete mess. Headband curls are apparently a new style, and Dylan's whole life has been meant to fit in, not to stand out, therefore she has to follow the trend. The previous night she had curled her hair and sprayed it with this horrible spelling perfume, maybe drugstore vanilla, but it was the best that she could find at short notice, and turns from side to side, examining her outfit.

It's something new that she realizes, and Dylan's always thought that's she's skinny and pretty, because nobody's dared to tell her otherwise, but, she can't help but notice all of the flaws that overwhelm her;

First of all, there's the hair. The red, ugly hair that's tangled into knots around the headband, and Dylan wonders if she should just cut all of her hair off, but then wouldn't that make it even worse? Nevertheless, what could be worse than this — _a lot, perhaps. _She tries to think about those moments of happiness, but they all disappear when her pants don't fit, and suddenly there's a tear in the back, and no, this can't be happening.

She can't become one of those girls; Dylan remembers just a few days ago making fun of Kori, the fat one, but now, is she going to become one of the victims?

Wanting to be confident isn't good enough anymore, because even those perfect people? She would like to think that they have flaws too, but they're just so perfect and her hips are growing wider, and the bulge in her stomach is slowly expanding. Maybe Claire was right; all those years back in the seventh grade, when she said that Dylan had "thunder thighs". Maybe it wasn't a joke, and maybe it was the truth, and maybe it's still the truth. It's the only explanation.

Dylan just wants to be pretty and perfect, and is that too much to ask for? Apparently, it is.

.

She's laughing with a few of her friends, at a pool party.

It's honest and real, and Dylan meets this guy — his name is Chris Plovert, but everybody calls him Plovert. He seems like a nice enough person and he's the only one who actually thinks about the Upper East Side more than just a game for drama queens and wannabe players. She sends a flirty smile his way, and he just turns around, laughing with another one of his playboy friends.

(Don't you know darling, that all boys, they're just the same?)

.

Dylan just wants to be accepted;

To be pretty and perfect enough that people would genuinely like her because she's sick and tired of always being the second choice. She tries to remember back to the days where she didn't care; where Dylan was just another one of those innocent little children, and she lies on her bed sometimes, for hours, staring up at the sky and ends up clawing her skin, ignoring the loose drops of blood, forever staining the carpets, covered up by nail polish.

After all, isn't that what every teenage girl is best at — putting on a mask of security, when inside, they're just ready to crumble, falling to pieces on the floor? But Dylan has the pressure, and after a while, she just can't take this anymore.

She wants to say goodbye, but she can't; none of this is worth it anymore. Not the popularity, not the fact that she's already severed all bonds with her family, because no matter how hard she tries to pretend that she belongs on the Upper East Side, Dylan will always be that child that nobody wanted, just a mistake.

She tries imagining a fairytale, one of those perfect worlds, where somebody would be rescuing her, because all the misery of her life, it would be worth it if there was somebody to share the misery with; sometimes it hurts, and there's nothing but the neverending silence, and she wakes up in the morning, more alone than over. Dylan hears the taunts from Massie and the other girls, their deliciously high pitched giggles squealing about the homecoming dances and how nobody really liked Dylan in the first place; and they call her a bitch, and a whore, and a slut, and she doesn't know what she did wrong.

But, she does know. Dylan knows that she's not good enough for them, and no matter how hard she tries, she'll just always be the outsider, desparate for a way into the Inner Circle.

And then suddenly enough, somebody dies and then it's all left to Dylan, a Kingdom to take over for her own, but she's not ever going to be the rightful ruler, and this isn't her kingdom come, and none of the lights shine for her. She stands on top of a beautiful little roof, teetering on the edge, wondering whether to step down or to be blown away, into the night sky, into the five year old land of paradise; and Dylan hears somebody calling her name, somebody calling her down.

But, no. She's not going to let her life be ruled by the requests of everybody else. Dylan's tired of being told what to do and who to be and who to be with, so the last decision she's going to make? It's going to be her own.

Dylan flies away.


End file.
